


Fix You

by Kiwikiwi591



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt, Violence, kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-04-13
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:12:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1454947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiwikiwi591/pseuds/Kiwikiwi591
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if John had never met Mary after the fall? What if he'd been left to deal with the grief on his own?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fix You

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for attempted suicide and related thoughts.

_“No. Sherlock, don’t-“_

_“Goodbye, John.”_

_He drops the cell phone. It feels like the whole world is crushing in, making it hard to breathe. I want to run, to somehow stop him, but I can’t move. All I can do is watch._

_He tilts forward, slightly. He’s really going to do it. Everything is closing in, crashing in huge waves. My eyes go wide. I feel myself scream._

_“Sherlock!”_

_He puts his arms out, hesitates for a moment._

_He jumps._

_My breath catches in my chest. I watch him fall as my heart beats hard._

_“Sher-“I hear myself say._

_I hear a resounding thud._

_Suddenly I’m sprinting behind the ambulance building, getting hit by a biker. I stand, see a crowd around a body._

_My legs are moving on their own, bringing me to the center of their attention. I reach over, grab the body’s wrist, knowing I won’t find a pulse there. Someone rolls him over as I lose my balance._

_I see the blood on the sidewalk, on his head, matting down his hair._

_I see the once icy, curious eyes, glazed over with death._

* * *

John Watson springs upright, breathing hard at the nightmare. His heart is still racing, in tune with the memory of that day nearly two years ago. He blinks a few times, trying to push the memory away.

_“Please, no, he’s my friend-“_

He shakes his head, putting it in his hands. He tries hard to keep the emotion away, but it still comes. The tears drip through his fingers, down onto his bed. He shudders, looking up into his empty flat. The words still echo through his head.

_”Goodbye, John.”_

John’s hands ball into fists, and he squeezes his eyes shut again. How could Sherlock have been so damn _selfish?_ The man was a bloody genius; he had to have known how his suicide would have affected him, especially since he’d been helpless to stop it.

God knows he’d tried. He could still remember how everything crushed in the moment he realized what Sherlock was doing on the rooftop, how he tried to think desperately of something to say to stop it.

_“This phone call… It’s… It’s my note. That’s what people do, isn’t it? Leave a note.”_

_“Leave a note, when-?”_

Guilt takes the place of anger. John gives a shuddering sigh, tears threatening again. He should have said something, anything, besides that stupid question. He’d known full well what Sherlock had meant by leaving a note, and yet he’d used his one chance to ask anyway.

And Sherlock’s reply had been a goodbye.

John’s hand clenches in an effort to stop the tremor that’s returned. No matter how hard he tries, it comes back, just like the limp did. He feels no different from when he returned from Afghanistan; broken and useless. He looked around his flat again, eyes locking on the desk drawer. He kept his gun inside, as always.

_It’d be quick, you know. Just pop the barrel in your mouth, pull the trigger, and it’s done._

He took a deep breath, trying to keep calm. That nagging little voice in the back of his head again, telling him how much easier things would be if he did what it said. Somewhere in his mind, John knew that it wasn’t a good thing that he’d started to get the nagging little inklings. At first they’d terrified him, and it was easy to shove them away. He still remembered the first time it’d happened, about eight months ago.

He’d been on a walk, just trying to not think for a while. It’d happened while he was on the walkways of Tower Bridge. Looking over the edge, the thought had just popped into his head.

_If you fell from this height, it’d be over. You wouldn’t have to worry about clearing your head anymore._

He still remembered how the thought had shocked him, made him gasp and step away from the edge.

A man walking by had joked, “Afraid of heights, are we?”

John just forced what was likely a terrifying smile and went on his way. The thought burned in his mind the entire day, making him question his sanity. He’d considered going and seeing his therapist again, but it’d been obvious that they were getting nowhere a year after Sherlock’s death. Instead, he just sat in his flat, staring off into space while he sat at his desk.

Over the past few months, however, the little thoughts had gotten less frightening and more frequent. The worst thing, though, was that he was starting to think that maybe they didn’t give such bad advice.

John stood up, stretching slowly. He glanced at the clock; 8:35 AM. Good time to go out and walk.

He gave one last, long look to the drawer before stepping outside.

* * *

 

It’d been a long walk. He’d been stopped by people asking if he needed a ride on account of his limp, but he refused each time. He needed the time and the exercise, even if it hurt. He finally stepped through the familiar gate of the cemetery, walking down the path that he knew well.

John stopped, staring at the headstone. He touched the cool, black stone, reading the name to himself again and again; Sherlock Holmes. He sighed heavily, preparing to speak.

“Hello, again,” John said quietly. He was past the point of feeling embarrassed for talking at the grave.

“I’ve not been doing well, you know. It’s difficult. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep this up.”

As always, there was no reply. John took a moment, taking a breath before continuing.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but I need you to go along with me today. Can you do that for me?”

John waited. After a couple of moments, he smiled; it was the first genuine smile he’d had in weeks, maybe months.

“Right, well… Let’s not hang around.”

* * *

 

John walked through London, taking a casual path by a few select places. He’d grown to love the city, along with its landmarks. He smiled as he passed by Angelo’s.

“Remember this? I was convinced you were a bloody psychopath by the time we left here,” John said. A couple people gave him odd looks as he talked to himself, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not anymore.

His smile fell a little. “But you weren’t. More people should have seen that,” he finished quietly.

He continued on his way, still talking as he went. Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew it was ridiculous to speak to a dead man like he was actually there. And yet, he continued to talk to him through the rest of the day.

* * *

 

It was dark now as John stepped back into his flat. He huffed, tossing his coat onto his bed.

“Well, here we are. Sad little place, isn’t it?” he said.

He went to the kitchen, brewed himself a cup of tea. He sipped it slowly, leaning back into his chair.

“It’s better than being homeless, I suppose. But then again, that doesn’t really matter now.”

John opened up the drawer, took out his gun. He set it on the desk. Looking down at his hand, he noticed that the tremor was gone. He sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

“Why’d you have to do it, Sherlock? I know you weren’t a fake, no matter what you might have said at St. Bart’s. I just can’t think of anything that would have driven you to…” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

“I tried to figure it out. I really did. But, it would have taken you to piece together the evidence, and obviously that wasn’t going to happen. Don’t worry though, I’m coming to find you; and when I do, we’re going to have a long, long talk.”

He readied the gun, trading it for the cup of tea in his hand. The metal felt cool to the touch, and heavy in his hand. He closed his eyes, bringing it to his temple.

“John?”

John smiled, eyes still closed. He bowed his head a bit, giving an empty laugh.

“Good Lord, I’ve really lost it now, haven’t I? You’re actually talking to me. Either that or I’ve already pulled the trigger,” he said.

“John, _stop._ ” The voice said again. That deep, rumbling voice that John knew he’d never hear again.

The laughing turned into a choked sob.

“I can’t get any peace, can I? Even when I’m about to bloody _die;_ you’re still in my head. I’ve had enough, Sherlock. I can’t do this anymore.”

He flipped the safety switch. The voice was back again.

_Do it. One little twitch of the finger, and you’re done._

“ _John!”_ Sherlock yelled.

A gunshot rang out in the flat.

* * *

 

John looked up with wide eyes at the man who was standing in front of him. The man who was dead, had caused him more than enough grief for a lifetime, and had spoken to him in what were supposed to be his last moments.

Sherlock was here, impossibly, and looking absolutely terrified. That wasn’t right; John was the one who’d just blown a hole in the wall of his flat trying to kill himself. If anyone should look terrified, it should be him.

Sherlock was breathing hard, staring at his hand gripping John’s arm; the one that still held the gun.

“ _What the **hell** were you thinking?” _Sherlock said, his voice filled with venom.

John continued to stare at him. So many thoughts were flying through his head at once. Sherlock was here, alive. This wasn’t a hallucination; figments of the imagination didn’t stop someone from committing suicide. Oh, _Christ_ , he just attempted suicide. He was actually about to shoot himself in the head. What would that have done to his family? To the few friends that he still had, that he’d pushed away? What would that have done to _Sherlock,_ who was alive?

His mind still stuck to that idea. Sherlock was alive, and here. In his flat.

And he’d just saved his life.

Tears filled John’s eyes. Sherlock’s expression softened a bit, but was still filled with anger.

“How could you even _think_ of doing that? Why would you end your life, John?”

“Why would you end _yours, Sherlock?”_ John spit back, voice cracking.

Sherlock hesitated, taken aback. John gave a short laugh, in spite of everything. Of course he wouldn’t have thought about that, the fact that John had had no idea that his friend was still alive.

“John, it’s a very long explanation,” he said.

“I have all the time in the world,” John replied.

“First, give me your gun.”

John looked down at his hand. He hadn’t realized that he was still holding the gun, or that Sherlock was still squeezing his arm. The sight of the firearm almost repulsed him now; he didn’t want to see it anymore. He lifted his arm weakly, giving it up.

Sherlock took the offered gun, walked over to the window, and threw it in the bin. John gave no protest.

“Now, explain,” Sherlock said.

John looked up at him incredulously.

“Excuse me?” he said.

“You. Explain what in _God’s name_ you were thinking.”

“Me. You want _me_ to explain why _I_ was going to kill myself?” he said.

Sherlock flinched slightly at the end of John’s sentence, but simply replied, “Yes.”

John looked down, nodding.

“Okay, fine. You want to know? I’ll tell you. I couldn’t stand it anymore, Sherlock. Two years, I thought you were gone. For two years, I grieved over you. For _two fucking years, Sherlock, all I could think of was how guilty I was._ Of all the things I hadn’t said. I was angry, Sherlock. I’ve dealt with deaths of friends before. I’ve been partially at fault for friends deaths before, on the battlefield; not working quickly enough. But those weren’t entirely my fault; they’d gotten those injuries while fighting. But with you, Sherlock, I felt like everything was my fault. I felt like I should have been more careful to make sure everyone _knew_ you weren’t a fake, that I should have let you show off. I felt like I should have said something else that day at St. Bart’s, while you were on the rooftop. _I felt like it might as well have been me shoving you off the fucking roof, for all it mattered.”_

John took deep breaths, slamming his fist on the table. Everything that had gone unsaid was all pouring out at once, and he couldn’t stop it. He didn’t look at Sherlock, but he could feel the tension in the room. He was obviously uncomfortable.

“I’ve spent the last year in absolute _hell,_ Sherlock. I’ve spent every day dealing with the guilt, with the pitiful looks from everyone we knew. Every day felt like climbing a mountain, and I just couldn’t do it anymore. I was sick of visiting your gravesite and pretending I was talking to you. Do you understand me, Sherlock? _I could not handle the fact that you were gone and that it was my fault._ You absolutely broke me. There, it’s done; I’ve finally said it. I literally cannot live without you.”

John finally stopped, leaving an agonizing silence in the room. He let himself look at Sherlock, and nearly broke down all over again.

He’d never seen so much emotion in the man. His eyes were shining with tears, and he just looked at John, mouth slightly agape.

Sherlock fell to his knees, now eye-level with John. He continued to stare, mouth working as he tried to say something.

“John, I…” he started. Both of his hands were gripping John’s arm now, as if he was trying to hang on to him. “I never-“

“Never what? Never expected that I might react like this to you dying? Never thought that it might _hurt_ a little for me to keep going without you?”

“I never expected to mean that much to anyone,” Sherlock finally finished.

“Oh,” John said. “…Oh.”

Well, that wasn’t what he expected. He felt bad for the outburst, now. He just simply sat back and thought on what was said.

_“I never expected to mean that much to anyone.”_

God, how awful of a life must he have had? Did he really feel so unloved that he thought that his apparent suicide wouldn’t hurt anyone?

“You have to understand, John,” Sherlock said, breaking his train of thought. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t let you know that I wasn’t really dying. If I had, you would have been in danger. It was all a part of Moriarty’s plan.”

And with that, Sherlock explained everything. The entirety of Moriarty’s plan and the criminal web, Molly and Mycroft’s involvement, how he’d faked his death…

John was silent through the entire thing, not even giving as much as a nod. After the explanation of how it was done, however, John held up a finger. Sherlock stopped.

John was quiet still for another couple of moments, letting everything sink in. Finally, he spoke.

“Alright, Sherlock. Fine, I understand the how and why. I just have one question,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me at some time during those two years? Why did you let me go through all of that? You didn’t have to tell me everything that you were doing, you only had to tell me that you were alive.”

“Because, John,” Sherlock replied quietly, “I thought that you would be better off without me. I wasn’t even decided on if I was going to come back to London once I was finished. I only came back because Mycroft informed me of your little… Chat at the graveyard this morning. He has surveillance there for security purposes.”

John flushed slightly at that. Mycroft had heard everything he’d said at Sherlock’s grave, then?

“I meant it when I said I never expected to mean that much to anyone, let alone you. I’d always felt that I clung onto you like a child, and that you only put up with it to avoid hurting my feelings. I never would have expected to have been such a part of your life that you felt unable to continue without my involvement. In other words, John…” he paused for a moment, then looked directly at him. “…I never expected my feelings to be returned.”

John’s mouth fell open. It felt like his heart might beat out of his chest.

“Despite what you and many others think, John, I do have feelings. I just choose to not let them infringe on my work. In the words of my brother, caring is not an advantage. All of my normal rules fall apart when it comes to you, though. As hard as I try, when you’re involved, I can’t be completely emotionless as I can in any other situation. The two years I spent dismantling Moriarty’s web were absolute hell without you. Admittedly, there were even a couple of times where I spoke as if you were there just to keep myself sane.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was like looking into a mirror.

“John, I am truly, sincerely sorry for the pain I caused you. All I can ask is for your forgiveness.”

John stared at Sherlock, seeing the pleading in his eyes. It hurt to see the other man this way. He never would have thought that they’d end up in this situation; Sherlock back from the dead to stop John from joining him there, and then finding that they each had feelings for the other. It was absolutely surreal.

John realized after feeling the grip on his arm tighten that Sherlock was waiting for a reply. John carefully took away Sherlock’s hands, feeling a momentary pang of guilt at the man’s broken expression. He took a deep breath, then placed his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. He looked deep into the burning, icy eyes. It almost killed him to see those eyes normally so confident filled with so much pain and pleading. He decided to take a chance, moving his hands up to Sherlock’s face.

“I am beyond happy to see you alive,” John said. “And yes, of course I forgive you.”

John’s eyes flew open as Sherlock pressed his lips to his. Electricity went down his spine as he slowly began to return the kiss, leaning into the warm embrace. He was surprised at how perfectly their lips moved together, connecting and releasing in a way that just felt completely right. John tilted, deepening the kiss and grabbing the back of Sherlock’s head, running his fingers through the dark curls. He closed his eyes, just reveling in the sensation of the perfect moment.

After what felt like much too short a time, Sherlock pulled away. John’s eyes fluttered open to look at the other man. John smiled a bit, letting out a small laugh at Sherlock’s expression. He looked quite a bit too much like a deer in the headlights. At John’s laughing, however, Sherlock looked just the tiniest bit hurt.

“Not good?” He asked quietly.

“No, Sherlock,” John said. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, falling into John. He wrapped his arms around, bringing them both into a wonderful embrace. John put his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, sighing happily for the first time since... God, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this happy. Not even before the fall.

Everything about this moment was just so wonderfully right and perfect, as if it’d been meant to happen. This was a man who never showed feeling towards anybody, and yet he’d just confessed and demonstrated his love towards John. John couldn’t help but grin at that thought; they really were in love with each other, as clichéd as it sounded. At the moment, John was perfectly happy to stay this was forever. After a while, however, he felt that something needed said.

“You can’t do this to me again, understood?” he said. Sherlock leaned back, looking at John in confusion. “You can’t leave me again.”

Sherlock just simply nodded.

“And Sherlock…” John started. “I can never thank you enough for saving me. There’s a lot of things I’ve lived through, but I wouldn’t be sitting here this moment if it wasn’t for you.”

Sherlock stopped, staring at him with a blank look as if he’d just spoken another language. After another couple moments, however, Sherlock gave one of his rare genuine smiles. John practically melted at the sight.

“In exchange, then,” Sherlock said, looking serious for a second. “You must agree to never do this again. I will do my best to never leave you, John, but should anything happen-“

John shushed him. “I won’t. I promise.”

Sherlock stopped. “Alright. Fine," he said quietly.

“So we’re good, then?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock said.

John smiled, leaning back into Sherlock. There were many things to come, he knew, but for now, John was content to lean against his bed with him.

Sherlock; the man who’d overcome his own destructive habits, criminals, explosions, and even death to save John in more ways than one.

He couldn’t be any happier.

**Author's Note:**

> After all the fluff of the last fic, I felt the need to write something a bit more serious. I suppose it turned out more fluffy at the end, but whatever. I hope you liked reading it!


End file.
